


Every Time I Fall You Catch Me

by talkingtothesky



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Crack, Episode: s01e07 Witness, Episode: s01e18 Identity Crisis, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 23:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6727390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drugged Finch can't stop talking about how attractive Reese is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Time I Fall You Catch Me

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://itsthemtheyknownotme.tumblr.com/post/143310914244/comtessedebussy-clexa-are-soulmates-in).
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr, unfinished, [here](http://talking2thesky.tumblr.com/post/143416603158/rinch-identity-crisis-coda).

 

"You're _tall_ ," Finch was saying, swaying back on his heels a bit and waving his hand above Reese's head to demonstrate their height difference.

 

Reese carefully put his palm against Harold's back to stop him toppling over onto the library floor. "Come on. Let's get you to bed."

 

Finch squinted at him. "But I already _went_ to bed." He protested, with the air of a petulant toddler being told he couldn't stay up past his bedtime. "And then I got out again, because I can't sleep. I feel _strange_."

 

Reese frowned. "Are you nauseous?"

 

"No, I'm...I have so much _energy_. I feel like dancing."

 

Reese squashed down a fond smile. "You're just high, Finch. Please will you sit down, at least?"

 

Finch shook his head. So fast and wildly that Reese feared for his damaged neck. "Restless. I need something to work on, or...how about press-ups? You're always telling me I should get more exercise." He punctuated this suggestion by placing his hands on Reese's chest, grasping at the fabric of his shirt.

 

Reese bit his lip. He gently dislodged the contact, lowering Finch's wrists to his sides. "That's not a good idea right now. I'm worried you'll fall and hurt yourself."

 

"I won't." Finch said, indignantly. He tried to stamp his foot, but he wasn't wearing shoes and the impact was weak as a kitten's. And then his face screwed up, considering the possibility. "But if I did, you'd catch me," he added, quite earnestly.

 

Reese stared at him, bewildered. Where was this coming from? "That's...not the point," he replied, faintly.

 

"The point is..." Finch continued, elongating the _is_ so that it went on for several more syllables than it needed to, until he lost his train of thought. Reese could see the cogs turning in that brilliant brain of his. He fumbled for a second, then landed decisively on: "That you're so _dreamy_."

 

Reese could feel his ears growing hot. He stepped away from Finch and cast around for a distraction - a bottle of water on a nearby table, almost empty. He pressed it into Finch's hands. "Here, you should finish this."

 

Finch peered down at it for a long moment, adjusting his glasses. Then he very slowly unscrewed the cap, and lifted the bottle in front of his right eye like it was a kaleidoscope. "Whoa," he commented, and didn't elaborate. Reese watched him carefully. He didn't want Finch to spill water down himself, but he was pleased to have changed the subject of Finch's drugged, scattered focus.

 

Unfortunately, Harold's current attention span was very short. "How does it feel?" He asked Reese, turning the bottle back to vertical again and swirling it around, so that water splashed against the sides. Reese stayed silent, not following him. "Being beautiful. Anyone you wanted, yours." Finch tried to click his fingers, only he was still holding the bottle cap. It spun off and skittered across the floor.

 

Reese was lost for words. This conversation was making him very uncomfortable. The sober Harold was going to feel humiliated in the morning if he remembered saying any of this, but deep down, a selfish part of John didn't want him to stop. Avoiding looking at his friend, he focused on retrieving the lid from the dusty corner where it landed.

 

As Reese crouched down with his back to Harold, Finch sighed. "Your _shoulders_."

 

Reese shuddered. He had a sudden, vivid sense memory of Finch holding the measuring tape across them for his suit fitting. He straightened up, plastic lid in hand, stomach churning. He had been flirting with Finch for months, practically ever since they started working together, but he had never expected _this_. He wanted to say _you're so much more beautiful than me, inside and out._ But he was overreacting, surely. This was just the drugs talking.

 

"You don't know what you're saying. Please go to sleep. I don't wanna leave you here alone but I don't want you to hate me in the morning, for seeing you like this."

 

"I could never hate you, John." He was holding out the bottle of water.

 

Reese took it, put the lid back on, set it down.

 

And Finch still wasn't done talking. "I'm so glad I found you."

 

Reese looked him in the eye then, thinking fiercely: _I'd be dead if you hadn't._ "Me too."

 

Finch lurched towards him. John held his hand out and Harold grasped it, and hand-in-hand John led him back to the crash room, helped him lie down on his side, tucking the sheets around him. Harold smiled sleepily, snuggling into the pillow. His eyes were closing, though John could see he was still making an effort to stay awake. He turned the lamp out. Harold made a soft noise of complaint.

 

John squeezed his shoulder and promised "We'll talk more in the morning, when this wears off. I'll be just outside if you need me."

 

"Mr Reese..." Harold murmured, and John stood beside the bed for a full minute waiting for the end of that sentence, before he realised Finch was asleep.

 

\---

 

John fell into a doze at close to 4am, sitting in a chair with his chin tucked down.

 

He jolted awake around three hours later, sensing movement. Finch was in the doorway, looking...sheepish. "Oh. You're still here."

 

He rubbed gingerly at the bad crick in his neck. "Do you want me to go?"

 

"No, I...thank you, for keeping an eye on me. You needn't have done that." Finch stepped across the smooth library floor in socked feet.

 

Reese tried not to stare at his unbuttoned collar, his exposed throat. "Are you back to normal now?"

 

Finch nodded. "Yes, I think so."

 

There was a loaded silence, then they both spoke at once.

 

"Harold, I took advantage -"

 

"I'm very sorry I embarrassed you - "

 

Reese covered his own mouth with his hand.

 

Finch's stomach chose that moment to growl loudly, saving them both from this conversation.

 

"Breakfast. When did you last eat?" Reese got to his feet and retrieved his jacket from the back of the chair.

 

Finch thought about this. "I had lunch. But you don't have to -"

 

Reese had shrugged into his coat, was already heading for the stairs. "It's alright. Back in a bit." Even in his haste to give Finch some privacy, he paused on the landing and looked back before going down, reluctant to let him out of his sight. There was a dissatisfied slant to Harold's mouth, but he was watching Reese leave with a kind of wonder in his eyes.

 

 _You're so dreamy._ Reese shivered as he stepped out into the crisp morning air.

 

\---

 

By the time John returned, Finch was dressed. Fresh suit, hair combed, shoes on, tie knotted, he looked altogether neat and presentable, back to his default state.

 

John sat down and laid out the food he'd brought on the desk. A box of croissants, fresh soft bread rolls, an apple, oatmeal energy bars. Plus green tea, of course, and coffee for himself.

 

Typing away, Harold said "Thank you, Mr Reese," without looking at him, and picked up the tea.

 

John waited for Finch to take a sip, swallow, and put the drink down safely again, before he spoke. "So, you like me, huh?" It came out more smugly than he intended.

 

Finch continued to type. "There's no need to restate the obvious."

 

Reese nudged the box of croissants closer to Harold's hand. He wanted to be sure he ate. "It wasn't obvious to me, before last night."

 

"Whatever she gave me clearly lowered my inhibitions," Finch said, stiffly. He hesitated over the croissants before reaching for the apple. Golden Supreme, the only type John had ever seen him touch. They were only available from a few select street vendors.

 

Reese picked out one of the bread rolls for himself. He wasn't particularly hungry, but he hoped Harold would follow his example. "I'm sorry I didn't try harder to keep you from telling me. I know how much you value your privacy. But I...I liked hearing it."

 

Finch peeled the little label off the apple's shiny red surface and stuck it to the lid of the pastry box. He bit into the apple decisively and chewed slowly. He'd stopped typing, at least, but John had given him another reason not to talk, not to look him in the eye. He was observing the piece of fruit intently.

 

John decided maybe the best policy here would be to shut up and eat. He leant back in his chair and ate a couple of rolls, trying to catch the crumbs in his other hand, not wanting to mess up Harold's floor. There were paper plates in the kitchen area, on top of the microwave, he should fetch them. He stayed put. He was _not_ watching Harold's fingers as they turned the apple, or the faint damp shine of his lips. Even seeing him swallow a mouthful was suddenly too intimate. John wanted to unbutton Finch's collar, witness the bobbing of his throat all the way down.

 

"I know what you're thinking," Harold said, not at all amused.

 

John willed his libido down.

 

"You hadn't given this a moment's consideration before my unfortunate admission, and now you're wondering whether you could possibly see me in that way. You wish to avoid saying that you're flattered but not particularly interested, because you don't want to hurt my feelings." Harold concluded, bitterly.

 

Reese stared at him, dismayed. "I don't want to hurt your feelings, Harold, but you're wrong." It frustrated him that Finch was apparently this oblivious.

 

Harold actually looked at him then. Eyes wide, turning in his chair, half-eaten apple still in hand, he croaked out "Oh?" in a voice high and thin with hope.

 

Reese's heart went out to him, and he knew he had to explain fast. "Since Elias." He began, setting a napkin on his knee and grabbing a croissant from the table.

 

Harold frowned.

 

"Before we knew Charlie Burton was Elias, while we were out of contact, he and I had a...moment. He held my hand and I told him he reminded me of you. His cover was so kind. He just wanted to help the kids, help everybody. Risk himself if that was what it took. Charlie seemed innocent, at least compared to me. But I was wrong, wasn't I? He also had the capacity to quietly run this city, and so do you. When I got off the ferry, I was so angry with you, because we'd saved the wrong man. I decided to walk away. You gave me twenty minutes to calm down, and then you came after me. I was so relieved that you came after me. I had a beer in front of me and I was trying not to drink it. You walked into the bar and you grabbed my wrist and asked me to forgive you. I agreed to come back to work the next morning and just like that I couldn't drink. You saved me, again. I wanted to kiss you."

 

"John."

 

"And every day since, Harold. Feeling's mutual. I'm just sorry you were never going to tell me, without that drug."

 

Harold sighed. He'd put the apple down. His eyes were wet. John was concerned that Harold still hadn't eaten anything substantial. He rolled up the untouched croissant and handed it across. Harold ducked his head, smiled weakly, and took it. John watched him as he ate, making his appraisal of Harold as plain on his face as he could. There was a deep satisfaction that came with making sure Harold had breakfast each day, the same way Harold had ensured John had a roof over his head since they met, even when John felt he didn't deserve one.

 

"I should have known," Finch said, when he was done. He gestured to the table, the food on it. "All of this. It's not just finding out what I like, is it?"

 

It was John's turn to smile. "Apparently, you like my shoulders." He stood up to tower over Finch, and slowly removed his jacket.

 

Harold blushed, beautifully.

 

Encouraged, John tugged his shirt out of his waistband and unbuttoned it, relishing the feel of Finch's eyes on him.

 

When he reached to undo his belt, Harold stood up, forestalling him. He laid one hand over John's, and with the other he grabbed the belt and used it to drag John along behind him, into the crash room.

 

John had always been happy to follow wherever Harold would lead him.

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies for the fade to black. I'm not very good at ending stories lately. I think it's safe to say, Harold gives him a _very_ enthusiastic blowjob after that. ;)


End file.
